


Going Over the Top

by MonkeyBard



Series: Capture the Cauldron [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 10:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19944397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonkeyBard/pseuds/MonkeyBard
Summary: The team go into action.





	Going Over the Top

**Author's Note:**

> Date: 23 July 2019   
> JWP #23: Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue, Remove the Impossible and What's Left Is True: Be poetic! Write a poem, or have the characters reference or quote poetry. Music lyrics count.

Winnie called Creirwy to her and the pair had a soft, bilingual conversation in Welsh and Welsh Corgi. Nearby, John waited for his own instructions. Anything beyond “grab the cauldron and run” would be helpful.  
  
His soldier’s instincts and training had begun to kick in. He felt alert, heart beating quickly but not racing, anticipation focussing his senses and his mind. The sun overhead was comfortably warm on his face; the scent of grass was strong and green in his nose. A light breeze pulled the sea-salt smell to him once more and words more forgotten than recalled came to mind.  
  
 _And life is Colour and Warmth and Light,  
And a striving evermore for these_  
  
He had no memory of the poet or the title of the poem. Just that snippet undoubtedly left over from a poetry unit in school. How it had stuck escaped him, but he welcomed it now.  
  
“John.” Winnie turned to him and her face was smooth, her gaze intense.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Morfran knows Creirwy and I are here.”  
  
John nodded. “I sort of guessed that.”  
  
“He’ll expect us to make an attempt soon, and he will fight to stop us when we do. I’ll distract him while Creirwy goes after the cauldron.” She took a breath. “She will fail, deliberately. That’s our double-cross. That’s when you move in.”  
  
“What can you tell me about the cottage?” He couldn’t do a reccy from where they hid. He didn’t even know what side the door was on, only that it wasn’t on the side he could see. He could make out a tendril of smoke on the far side that he guessed must come from a short chimney, obscured by the peak of the roof line.  
  
“There’s one way in and out. It’s on the west end. The cauldron will most likely be at the hearth in the back, possibly even over the fire.”  
  
“All right.” Already he was considering how he might grab the thing without burning himself. His jacket sleeves were thick, but were they thick enough? He’d figure something out.  
  
“What you must remember, beyond not being seen, is that whatever is in that cauldron, _don’t touch it_. If it splashes on you, even if it scalds you, for the love of sense, _do not put it in your mouth_. Understand?”  
  
“Sure.” He hesitated. Wasn’t there something about knowledge or wisdom and Cerridwyn’s Cauldron? “What’s in there?”  
  
“I have no idea,” she answered flatly. “It was empty when he took it. He could’ve put anything in it since.”  
  
That hit home. Even if John were the sort to ignore her warning, a chance at knowledge and wisdom wasn’t worth potentially being turned into toadstool or an eternally damned soul. “Should I just dump it out?”  
  
“No. There’s no telling what that would do. It _might_ just put out the fire. Or it _might_ just cause a catastrophic reaction of some sort. There’s simply no telling.”  
  
John inhaled deeply and let it out. “Got it.”  
  
Winnie turned to Creirwy. “Ready, _merch_? Off you go, then.”  
  
The dog yipped a single affirmative and ran off to the west, circling the valley, preparing to come in from the north so that John could approach unseen from the south.  
  
“And you, John?” She regarded him closely. “Ready?”  
  
“As I’ll ever be.”  
  
“Be careful, _ŵyr_.”  
  
Winnie stood up and lifted her arms…and suddenly flew upwards in hawk form. Her call pierced the quiet and she circled the sky above the cottage. John got the feeling there were words in her cries, but he could understand them no better than he could when she spoke Welsh.  
  
Silently, he crawled up the little hill, keeping as flat as possible, until he lay at the crest where he could see the valley below.  
  
An angry shout met Winnie’s calls and he heard what sounded like a door slamming open. At first he saw no one, hidden as the door was from his angle. Then a man appeared, storming angrily around the south side of the cottage. He was short and dark-haired, with hands that look large and strong enough to mine coal from the earth without the aid of tools.  
  
Morfran.  
  
He shouted in Welsh at the circling hawk, and John suspected from the tone of them that there were curses in the words.  
  
Morfran rounded the far side of the building, shouting now at someone on the ground. Creirwy, no doubt, making her false dash towards his door.  
  
John took his cue. Rising to a crouch, he half ran, half scuttled down the other side of the hill and raced across the valley to the cottage wall. He flattened himself against the side and cautiously moved towards the end where the door presumably still stood wide open.  
  
Reaching the corner, he paused to listen. The voices of hawk, dog, and man all came to him from the other side of the building. He had to trust that Winnie and Beauty would keep him occupied long enough for John to get in, get the cauldron, and get out.  
  
He slipped around the corner and ducked inside the cottage. Nothing rose up to stop him. Winnie was right that whatever magical wards there might be they’d taken no notice of him.  
  
He took the barest moment to assess his surroundings, not dissimilar to what he’d seen in Winnie’s cottage earlier but decidedly more oppressive and less cosy. In the northeast corner of the room was the fireplace and there, hanging on an iron hook over the fire, was the cauldron. It was smaller than he’d anticipated, which was a relief. Sprinting with a hot, cast iron pot at the end of one arm was daunting enough without it being a big, heavy thing.  
  
He swung the arm with the hook out from the fire. He caught a whiff of the brew within and almost gagged on the stench. No fear there about tasting it. There was no way in hell that noxious stuff was going anywhere near his mouth. He’d been right to worry about the heat; his sleeve alone wasn’t going to cut it protecting his fingers. He yanked off his jacket and awkwardly wrapped as much of it as he could around the handle. His coat might suffer for it, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.  
  
John hurried back to the open door and paused against the interior wall to listen. He heard the corgi barking to wake the dead and the hawk screeching an avian battle cry. Where was Morfran? John no longer heard his answering shouts.  
  
Suddenly, Morfran came into view several yards away. Creirwy dashed by between him and the cottage, and he shouted after her in fury. Winnie dove in from above, crossing the opposite direction from her daughter. Again, Morfran yelled after her—and John saw his chance. Winnie’s swooping path took Morfran’s focus north and upward, away from the door and away from John.  
  
Remembering Winnie’s warning and instructions, John dashed through the door and ran. He ran as if his life depended on it.

**Author's Note:**

> The first poem that came to mind was Charge of the Light Brigade, but realising this would be another Winnie instalment, it seemed too pessimistic for John. A little searching turned up [Into Battle](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47261/into-battle) by Julian Grenfell, which is bizarrely optimistic given its own inspiration.


End file.
